Bad Habit
by Celeb Ryu
Summary: About Ellie and her cutting problem, a much more twisted view then is usually portrayed. Done to "Bad Habit" by The Dresden Dolls


I've never ventured into Degrassi fanfiction before, but after listening to my Dreden Dolls CD, I was inspired to write this Ellie fic based on the song Bad Habit. A slightly more twisted look at her self-injury problem, as I know from experience, it can make you think in a very twisted fashion. I do not own Degrassi, The Dresden Dolls, or the song Bad Habit. Don't sue. I also don't own any money. Sometime after Whisper To A Scream, but before she starts dating Sean in Take On Me.

Bad Habit

By, Celeb Ryu

_Biting keeps your words at bay  
tending to the sores that stay  
happiness is just a gash away_

"Eleanor! Get out here!" my mom groans out from the living room. Wow, she's still sober enough to talk. Suprising. She usually isn't by this time of night. Maybe she's improving? Hah. As if. Besides, like I can go out with my arm dripping in blood? I laugh at the thought, reaching to grab the peroxide, wiping up the wounds. Must keep my messes secret. Must keep my happiness secret. They might take it away. Like Paige tried to…For a second I thought she might be right about therapy being helpful. Hah .I can't believe I actually listened to Paige.

_When I open a familiar scar  
pain goes shooting like a star  
comfort hasn't failed to follow so far._

No, what helps is this. Taking my beautiful razor from it's hiding place (the bottom of my underwear drawer, wrapped up in tissue) and slashing it across my skin a few times, waiting for the blood to spurt up. It's the only thing that helps, the only thing that makes me feel good anymore. It never fails, it always comforts me, even when nothing else will.

_and you might say it's self-indulgent  
you might say its self-destructive  
but, you see, it's more productive  
than if I were to be healthy_

And I know what anyone would say if they knew that I did this every night. That I'm self-indulgent, no better then an addict. I am an addict. That I'm destroying my life, destroying my body, and my "soul." Yeah, that's assuming I have one. If I was "healthy" and dealt with my problems the "normal" way, I'd go insane. Well, more insane then I already am anyways. This is the only thing that helps me keep a grip on reality. If you could even call it that.

_And pens and penknives take the blame  
crane my neck and scratch my name  
but the ugly marks  
are worth the momentary gain..._

Sometimes, when at school, and when I don't have my razor, I hide in the bathroom, ripping into my skin with a pen or whatever I can find. Of course, now I go into the stalls, less likely to get caught there. Unfortunately, these things leave worse scares, as they never achieve as clean of cuts as the razor does. But it's worth for that one single, sweet, yet fleeting moment of happiness.

_When I jab a sharpened object in  
choirs of angels seem to sing  
hymns of hate in memorandum_

I take a deep breath, slashing the razor against my skin once more. Mom's still yelling in the background, I think. I can't really hear her anymore. All I can hear is the angels soothing songs, the pain fleeting away as the blood drip down my arms, the resentment almost dulled to nonexistence.

_And you might say it's self-indulgent  
and you might say it's self-destructive  
but, you see, it's more productive  
than if I were to be happy_

I amuse myself with the idea of what would happen if my mom came in right now, assuming she's even sober enough to walk. Hell, I can't even remember the last time she got off the couch. Except to throw up…But she would probably just yell more, calling me a destructive child. At least there's no disappointment in this. If I were happy, I would be let down, and eventually it would hurt like hell all over again. At least this way I don't have to deal with that horrible transition.

_and sappy songs about sex and cheating  
bland accounts of two lovers meeting  
make me want to give mankind a beating_

It's harder at school though. Listening to Ashley and her bitter poems. So Craig cheated on her? I know it hurt her, but god, she never stops complaining about it. Do you hear me whining about Marco being gay? No. People deal with that. Though watching him and Dylan is kind of sickening, that sugary sweet batting of eyes and shit. Give me a break. They're almost as bad as Paige and Spinner. Now there's a couple that makes me sick to my stomach. Watching them makes me want to beat someone up, or something. Some people might call it jealousy. Yeah, right.

_And you might say it's self-destructive  
but, you see, I'd kick the bucket  
sixty times before I'd kick the habit_

Paige…I still remember her oh-so-horrified face when she caught me. "You're hurting yourself!" No shit, you think I don't know that? She keeps preaching to me now about how life is worth so much more then this. Like she'd ever understand someone like me. I'd rather die then give this up. Hell, I would die if I gave this up. This is the only thing that makes life bearable anymore. But how could I expect her or anyone else to understand that?

_and as the skin rips off I cherish the revolting thought  
that even if I quit  
there's not a chance in hell I'd stop_

As I rip the razor through my skin once more I realize something. There was no point in trying to quite anymore. Why resist something so beautiful? Something so helpful? I'm never going to stop; I know that now. So why even try? Really, it would be fruitless to do so.

_And anyone can see the signs  
mittens in the summertime  
thank you for your pity, you are too kind_

I know now that Paige isn't the only one who knows. I'm sure she spread the news around like wildfire, just like she does with everything else. Besides which, all the classic "signs" are there, right? Ms. Sauve told me that it's common for self-injurers to wear long sleeves and armbands and such. I guess she's not the only one who knows that, as in the halls I constantly get that "Oh what a poor, lost thing" look. Thanks. That was just what I needed. Your sympathy amazes me, really it does.

_And you might say its self-inflicted  
but you see that's contradictive  
why on earth would anyone practice self-destruction?_

Self-injury. Self-destruction. Self-mutilation. What dirty words. Yet everyone uses it to describe this behavior. I would hardly call it mutilation though. Mutilation is dirty, twisted, why would I perform something like that? This is beautiful; this is saving me. Why can't they all see that and just leave me alone?

_And pain opinions are sitcom feeding  
they don't know that their minds are teething  
makes me want to give mankind a beating_

What would they know about my pain? About suffering? Their understanding is so superficial, fed by T.V. Most of them have barely even begun to grasp what real pain is like. It pisses me off. The way they judge me. Like they know. Like they could ever understand. Makes me want to make them bleed so they really could. And even then, I doubt they would.

_I'm tried bandages and sinking  
I've tried gloves and even thinking  
I've tried Vaseline  
I've tried everything_

I've tried pretty much every "remedy" Ms. Sauve has offered to me. Covering them in bandages. Rubbing the scars with Vitamin E to help them fade more. Cover them with long sleeves, no matter the weather. I've even tried the stupid rubber bands I wear to school to make Ms. Sauve think I'm at least trying. Whatever. I've tried everything. I'm not mean to stop.

_And no-one cares if your back is bleeding  
they're concerned with their hair receding  
looking back it was all maltreating_

And I could walk through the school with my arms bleeding and I doubt anybodywould really care. Oh, they would pretend, make a big fuss. But just enough so they could walk away with a clean concience. They never really listen. They never really care. In some ways their abuse is much worse to me then "abuse" I do to myself._  
  
_

_Every thought that occurred misleading  
makes me want to give myself a beating...._

God, why do I think this way? There has to be something wrong with me. I have to stop this. Stop all this negativety, all these….these thoughts! I want to rip and tear at my skin until there's nothing left. But I can't do that. Not yet. My mom needs me, in her own twisted way. And I suppose Marco and Ashley might care if something happened to me. Maybe. So instead I just take another deep breath and press down hard as I drag the razor across my skin…

This is one bad habit I'll never beat.

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Okay, sort of weird, but I dunno, I liked it well enough. It was the idea I had in my head. Please read and review. And visit if you want to hear the song. It's very good. As is Girl Anachronism, another one I've debated writing an Ellie fic to.


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